Never Throw Stones at Ice Houses Unless You Intend to Win
by Ash9
Summary: One is an Olympic curler, the other an Olympic figure skater. They will meet as Destiny has decreed, one to find glory and one to find purpose. Merlin's time of Destiny is at hand. But will he succeed in saving Arthur?
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is an entry for Merlin Winter Olympics, a fest where we write entries with the Merlin characters intersecting somehow with the winter olympics. Had it not been for that inspiration, this fic would never have entered my mind. :D_

_Disclaimer: Just borrowing characters and having some light and lovely fun with them. Thanks, Merlin writers for giving us such a wonderful playground. No infringement intended._

* * *

Of course Merlin had heard of Arthur Jamieson. Everyone knew Arthur, knew that he was a blue blood athlete, a third-generation British Olympian that had been expected to bring home figure skating gold from the day he was born and as of yet, had failed in that quest. His face was all over the magazines and tabloids, had been ever since he'd won the figure skating national title two years in a row and placed third in the World Championships last year.

He was on the rise, peaking at just the right time to put the rest of the skating world back on its heels. According to the sensationalist press, this was Jamieson's year and everyone else could be considered mere footnotes.

Which had made Merlin a very annoyed footnote for quite a while before he decided that he was an Olympian in his own right and no one could force him to serve as an outdated mode of grammar notation if he didn't want to be one, thank you very much.

Perhaps after that, he had tried to force Jamieson out of his mind too forcefully, because how else could it be that was standing face to face, minutes into an argument with Britain's favorite Olympian before his brain caught him up on exactly who he was insulting with frightening regularity?

For an eternal moment, he quailed, cursing his stupid mouth and its tendency to get him into trouble.

But then he looked over again and saw the sneer on Arthur's face and the disdain in his eyes and just had to open his big mouth again.

* * *

_**Five minutes earlier...**_

"I think he's had enough, don't you?" Merlin gestured to the employee who had been trying, in broken English, to ask the blonde man to go somewhere with him. The blond man, instead of being kind and understanding, had been obnoxiously parroting the man's words back, distorting them further and carrying the joke on far too long. "Пожалуйста, прости мои соотечественники. Они пещерные люди." Merlin turned to the hotel worker, speaking in what he hoped was passable Russian to apologize for his countrymen, noting with a wry smile that they were cavemen.

The man's face lit up. "Спасибо, сэр. Английский переводчик еще не приехал." With a flush of embarrassment on his ruddy cheeks, the Russian explained that the English-speaking translator had not yet arrived for his morning duty at the hotel. "Пожалуйста, попросите его сообщить в ресепшн для сообщения."

Merlin nodded his understanding and offered to give Arthur the message. "Спасибо за сообщение. Я дам ему для вас."

"Огромное спасибо. Я должен вернуться к работе," the man said thankfully before scurrying away.

Merlin took a deep breath before turning back and pinning the obnoxious prat with a forceful glare. "That very nice man was simply trying give you a message that you need to report-"

"To the front desk, yes I know. I just didn't particularly want to go." The guys with him, who looked more or less British in their casual jeans and jumpers exchanged looks before agreeing with him loudly.

"You understood him? And yet you were making him repeat himself and ridiculing him for his accent? You pompous arse."

"What did you call me?"

"You heard me. We're here as ambassadors of Great Britain and you're behaving like a spoilt child. These people are not your servants."

Arthur sputtered and looked back at his friends. "I know that! But he couldn't seem to understand my question in return: if someone needs me, why aren't they ringing my cell?"

Merlin modulated his tone slightly. "I don't know. Perhaps you should go to the front desk as he asked and find out?"

Arthur snorted. "So. You speak Russian?"

"Yes. And you don't."

Arthur smirked and glanced back at his friends. "How did you learn Russian? Did you go to a special school or something?"

"No. I started studying Russian when I heard the Olympics were going to be in Sochi."

"Why?"

"It was a great excuse to do something I'd always wanted to do."

"Whatever." Arthur's bored expression put Merlin back on his guard again. "I don't have time for things like that. I'm too busy training."

"I assure you, I'm more busy training than you are. I have a full-time job on top of my training."

Arthur's eyebrows rose. "So you're an Olympian, then?" Merlin nodded, a distinctly unpleasant feeling uncurling in his gut. "What sport? No, let me guess..." He looked Merlin up and down and pursed his lips. "What do you think, gentlemen? What Olympic sport does he compete in? Chess? Badminton, no that's summer...oh, wait-is it curling?"

Merlin's cheeks colored despite himself. "There's nothing wrong with curling. It's a challenging sport."

Arthur threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, this is perfect! He curls for his country! And how many endorsement deals are you bringing in with that kind of status? It must be, what, at least twenty quid a year?"

Merlin's ears were hot and his vision narrowed down to the arrogant git in front of him. "The last time I checked, figure skating isn't exactly on the list of most manly sports either. Don't you take ballet?"

Arthur flushed pink. "Flexibility classes, you berk."

"I've heard it both ways." Merlin held his gaze for a moment before looking away, embarrassed at how quickly Arthur had gotten under his skin. Really, people questioned the validity of curling as an Olympic sport all the time and Merlin refused to let it bother him. Add to that the fact that he now recognized this prat as being of practically royal British blood and he was feeling a bit sheepish. "Either way, I think we're rather in the same boat, friend. Truce?"

Arthur, however, didn't follow his change of heart at all. His upper lip curled. "Friend? Did you just call me a friend?"

Merlin bristled automatically at his tone. "My mistake. I'd never have a friend who could be such an arse."

His friends burst out laughing and for some reason, Arthur's lips quirked in a smile, though he looked away quickly as if to hide it. "That's the second time you've called me that. No one does that."

"Maybe they should start. Arse."

Arthur held up three fingers in note of his insults. "So you're, what, the best curler in the world? Going to bring home the gold to the cheering, weeping masses of GB?"

"Something like that."

"Do you push the broom thingee or do the throwing?"

Merlin's eyebrows rose. "I'm the skip, that means captain-"

"I know what that means."

"Then you probably know I usually call from the back while my teammates sweep. It may seem pointless, but the brooms do make a huge difference."

"Perhaps, but it's what you yell across the ice that seems so silly."

"Makes sense to us."

"You know, I've a good mind to come and watch you. Watch you play your cute little sport." Merlin refused to rise to that bait, even though the way Arthur's mates were laughing made it difficult. "You start tomorrow, yeah?"

"Semifinals aren't until the 19th. Bit boring until then."

"Yes, but you might not make it to the semis. I'll come tomorrow and try to keep myself awake."

"Sure you won't be too busy ice dancing?"

"I'm a figure skater not an ice dancer."

"Semantics," Merlin said airily, waving a hand.

"And..." Arthur continued as though Merlin hadn't spoken, "the short program isn't for a few days. I'm sure I can catch some of the action in between my events."

"Brilliant." Merlin gave him a bright, sarcastic grin that was returned with the added power of a manic gleam in Arthur's eyes.

"Try not to choke. I'll be watching."

"Shouldn't be a problem. I'll throw the first hammer imagining it going straight for your face. Should help immensely. Cheers!" Merlin started to walk away, then turned back. "Don't forget to check at the front desk, with your best manners on," he added cheekily.

The frustrated grimace on Arthur's face was beautiful to behold.

* * *

After that rather unpleasant first meeting, Merlin might rather have kept away from the figure skating. But he wasn't given a choice. His best friend, Gwen, was an enormous figure skating fan and wanted nothing more than to watch Arthur skate his short program in the team figure skating event.

So two days later, Merlin found himself making his way into the Skating Center with the rest of the crowd.

"I can't believe we're actually free and he's here and he's skating and we're here because we're Olympians, too and it's just so completely brilliant that-"

"You often forget to stop and take a breath? I noticed." Merlin indicated two empty seats halfway down the row and Gwen moved toward them, murmuring polite things to all the people they were nudging on the way.

"So sorry. Thank you," she said as she finally sat down. "I know. I know! I'm an Arthur junkie. But he is so fit and so smart and-"

"And he's a complete prat. I told you about that."

"But he's never like that. Not really. I'm sure that something had upset him-"

"Gwen!" A tall, blonde girl was standing up on the row below them, reaching over to hug Gwen.

"Elena! I can't believe this is the first time I've seen you! Oh-ouch!" Gwen clutched at her hair and Elena jerked forward.

"Just a little entanglement here. No problem," Merlin leaned forward to help them get Gwen's hair out of the zipper of Elena's jacket.

"Sorry, Gwen. I'm such a klutz!" Elena's self-deprecating smile was charming. "Have you started curling yet?"

"Tomorrow. How about you?"

"No, downhill doesn't begin for another day. Just practice runs right now. Isn't this exciting?"

"It's a dream. Well, except the fact that my room is frigid and our hallway makes this buzzing noise at night. But it's still the Olympics! We're here to watch Arthur skate. He's so amazing!"

"Oh, I know. And he's so brave to go ahead and compete tonight!"

Gwen and Merlin exchanged glances. "What makes you say that?" Merlin asked quietly, even though there was enough noise going on around them that they shouldn't be heard.

Elena leaned in closer. "He's been getting death threats. Gotten three so far. The second one was delivered to the front desk at the hotel. The last one came through on a phone in the Skating Center last night during practice."

Merlin's stomach dropped. So the message that he had advised Arthur to get at the front desk had been a death threat? Had Arthur suspected it? Perhaps that was why he had been so reticent to retrieve it. Merlin closed his eyes and winced.

"You didn't know," Gwen said consolingly, patting his arm.

"Didn't know what?" Elena asked, her eyes wide.

"He and Arthur had a run-in the other day and Merlin quite got under his skin. But there you go, Arthur did have a reason for being so awful. He was stressed. Anyone would be."

Merlin nodded, foregoing any more comments as the first group of skaters hit the ice to warm up. They all settled down and watched as the Russian team slowly proved their dominance on the ice.

Merlin was quickly caught up in the excitement as the men took the ice to warm up. He always forgot how breathtaking these programs were. Beautiful and so difficult. The men especially did such difficult jumps that it defied logic. How could someone jump and spin so high in the air, only to land on a thin blade, expected to swing out of it and somehow make it artistic as well?

Arthur's program was explosive. He was not a meticulous skater, but the raw power in his movements evoked strong responses from the audience. His was the grace of the lion on the hunt, strength wrapped in beauty.

Early in the program, he landed his quad-four rotations in the air-after a triple toe loop, cementing his status as one of the best on the ice. There were just so many ways that the jump series could go wrong. At the crescendo of the music, he drew himself into an incredibly fast spin, deep red shirt flashing in the lights as if he were on fire.

Merlin sat back in awe, relegating himself to the position of Olympic footnote again. How could anyone expect to compete with that for Britain's attention? No wonder he was the media's darling.

But still, despite the standing ovation Arthur received from half of the audience, the Russian skater got a higher score in the end. There was a lot of suspicious talk following the conclusion of the mens part of the team skate, but Merlin's mind was more on Arthur's safety.

How serious was that death threat? How were the Sochi officials handling it? Something about the situation bothered him. Okay, well, a great deal of somethings. Arthur was so exposed here, very out of his element; they all were. It would be so easy to take advantage of that. Merlin wished he knew a way to help.

"I'm sure he'll be fine," Elena said when Merlin shared his thoughts. "Last I heard, Leon-he's a biathlete and Arthur's friend from school- was trying to talk him into checking out of Olympic village and getting a hotel room in the city, just to be sure."

"But shouldn't he be safer here?" Gwen asked, shocked.

"Well, that's what I said to Gwaine-he's that hockey player that went to uni with Arthur, you know him-and he said that the threats keep coming to Arthur wherever he is. It's like someone knows where he is all the time. Spooky, right? But they figure it must be an Olympian, then."

"So they figure he's safer outside the village?"

Merlin's gaze found Arthur where he sat with the rest of the British team, watching the pairs warm up for their portion of the program. He didn't look worried as he chatted with the coach at his side. Maybe this was all just a hoax, something to get Arthur off his game. The Russians were serious about skating, after all. But were they serious enough to sabotage their rival? No, surely not.

But then who would? Who would be crazy and desperate enough to try to stop Arthur by threatening his life over and over?

It was impossible to know, but whoever had done it must be seriously frustrated now. The threats alone weren't enough to keep Arthur from doing his best, as he'd proved tonight. If they were going to stop him from winning the individual gold, they were going to have to step up their efforts.

That thought stole Merlin's breath and kept him awake for nearly an hour that night.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Merlin walked onto the floor of the Ice Cube Curling arena, feeling the familiar sting of ice in the air, letting it settle over him. During the next week, Great Britain's team would play each of the other nine teams in a round robin tournament. Then the top four teams would be seeded into the semi-finals to play for medals. He might have been bragging to Arthur, but he had meant every word.

Great Britain's team was truly one of the best in the world, and they had high hopes to bring home a medal, if not a gold. They just had to throw perfectly.

Merlin watched the other players stretching out their limbs, not meeting each other's eyes. The mental game here was even more important than the physical, or at least just as important. Focus was everything.

From up in the stands, the girls from the G.B. team were calling down, ready to cheer them on. They were bricks, all of them. Merlin laughed and gave a wave when Gwen screeched his name, completely ruining the professional mien he had been trying to project.

"Ready to go, skip?" Lance walked up, giving Merlin an encouraging smile.

"As ever," Merlin said, doing one more deep knee bend to stretch out his muscles. His hamstrings had felt tight ever since the intense yoga session yesterday that he'd been invited to by that friendly gang of Americans. The workout had focused so deeply on strengthening leg moves that it had left him shaky and exhausted during the planking afterwards. They'd told him his accent was much more "cuter" when he was half-dead and too exhausted to enunciate.

Now he was wishing he'd chosen to do his own, more familiar routine. This was exactly why he'd put on his lucky socks this morning-

"Don't worry so much, Merlin," Lance said quietly, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Take a deep breath. Be one with the ice."

Merlin smiled, then sucked in a slow breath, closing his eyes. Be one with the ice: his coach's way of reminding him that Merlin is better when he is loose and calm, not uptight and worried about yoga moves or last night's suspiciously green soup at dinner or death threats to someone he hardly knows.

Merlin blinked. Where in the hell had that come from? Why was he worried about a prat he barely knew, and especially at a time like this?

_Focus. Calm._

Today, their match was against Russia, led by their intense skip Alexey Stukalskiy. The fans in the stands were obviously pulling for the Russian team, chanting "Ross-si-ya! Ross-si-ya!"

But curling was not a big Russian sport. GB knew how to do it better. Merlin walked over to his team and gave them a quick grin. "Looks like everyone here is at the top of their game. So are we. Let's do this our way: set up right, make them play the tough shots and bring it home nice and easy. You all in?" Nods all around. "Then let's throw."

* * *

It was easy to pick Merlin's long, lanky body out of the four in their British uniforms- white shirts with red at the collar paired with trim black pants. Much more sedate than the floral design on the pants of the Russians. Or the Norwegians, who were apparently trying to win by blinding their opponents with blocks of primary-color on their pants. Arthur had a feeling that he'd seen a piece of modern art like that before, but why anyone would want to copy that on to a pair of uniform pants...

Arthur was grateful to be able to look away from the Norwegians and focus on the GB team. Merlin's hair was a smudge of soot against the white ice as he frowned lightly, studying the ice before him. They were in the middle of a match with the Russians, winning at present. Merlin was preparing to "throw the hammer," which was, as Arthur had just learned from his iPhone, what they called sliding the final stone of an "end", which was something like an inning in baseball.

Merlin had sunk down, feet against the blocks, large stone in front of him and to his right, his gaze intent on the ice ahead. With truly surprising grace, he grasped the stone and pushed off in a deep lunge, keeping his body low, stretching his arm forward smoothly before releasing the stone to slide forward. His body moved forward at the same rate as the stone, and he barked instructions to his teammates as he finished his glide.

At first, Arthur found this nothing more than odd.

Truth be told, Arthur had never watched curling in his life. He had come today with a few of his mates, determined to have a good time and to ride Merlin about his pathetic sport when he next saw him. But once he settled down and started asking questions, it all started making a kind of sense to him. Strategy always intrigued him. And he was astounded to find that curling was as much about strategy as it was about physical ability.

The game was deceptively simple. Slide your stones down to the scoring area (the "house") and be the team with the closest stones to the center of the bullseye (the "button"). From there, it was like billiards, or bocce ball. As a team, you could employ many different strategies to knock out your opponent's stones and ensure your team's were closest to center.

By far, Arthur's favorites were the shots that cleared the house of all the stones from the other team. Merlin, astoundingly enough, was a phenomenal thrower. His long, lean body was flexible and seemed to be made for the deep knee bend that throwers employed to slide their stone smoothly along the ice.

Arthur still wanted to laugh at the guttural commands that followed, the constant_ "Hard! Hard! Hard!"_ that accompanied almost all of the shots, especially the hammer shots of each game. But it was easy to overlook when those shots did amazing, almost magical things.

How was it possible to send a stone sliding in into another stone which made it hit a stone from the other team that cleared it out of the house and forced it to bump into the only other stone from the other team, clearing it as well? Suddenly, miraculously, there were only three stones left, all from Great Britain's team. Merlin won his team three points in that end, bringing the score to 6 to 1.

Arthur was forced to admit that curling was a better sport than he'd realized and gained a grudging respect for Merlin, though he'd probably never quit ribbing him about those silly shoes and the_ sweeping, sweeping, sweeping._

The GB team won the match 7 to 4, finally quieting that raucous Russian crowd. Arthur was still deciding whether to hang around to watch the finish of the Canada/Germany match when the loudspeaker called for Arthur to report to the ticket office of the Curling Center. Arthur bowed his head, not wanting to see the looks on his mates' faces.

Gwaine smacked him on the shoulder. "Don't even think about it. Completely dodgy."

Arthur stood up. "I have to get it to give it to the security detail."

"Cor love a duck," Leon muttered. "How the hell do they always know where you are?"

"Pass." Arthur gave a wave to his bodyguard already standing and waiting on him a few rows up. "If I knew that..."

"Well. I'm going with," Gwaine said, quickly joined by Leon and their very large new friend, Percival. Percival was a mountain of a man who just happened to be Britain's best shot at a medal in speed skating. If you doubted it, one look at his enormous thighs would convince you otherwise.

As they moved out of the row, Arthur cast one more look down at the ice and stopped in surprise. Merlin was looking up at him, brow furrowed. He gave Arthur a quick wave which Arthur returned with a salute. Merlin broke out in a goofy grin and gave him a double thumbs-up.

Arthur left feeling cheered, though that dissipated quickly when he reported to the ticket office at the saw the new note which read simply, **_"Do not skate Thursday or you will be danger."_**

"I think he means _in_ danger," Arthur said crisply, handing the note to Gwaine. "I'll ring Chun."

"Already here and don't touch that," a crisp voice interrupted, taking the note from Gwaine. Chun-ho, a clean-cut Korean bodyguard in his forties, was sent by Arthur's father to tail him and keep him safe. That was the only condition that allowed Arthur to compete once his father got wind of the death threats. "I'll need to show this to the officials. That will be the last message over the intercom system with your name. We're moving this up to level alert:orange and notifying every venue to keep this quiet."

"Is that really necessary?" Arthur ground out. If the papers got hold of this, his life would become more of a three-ring circus than it already was. "I will simply stop attending events."

Chun frowned. "Won't fix anything. He's already sent one to your hotel. We should move you to the secure room outside of Sochi. Your father has-"

"No. I'm not getting run out of the Olympic Village. It's just ink and paper, just words. I'm staying here."

Arthur left Chun and the Russian translator speaking with the security team for the Curling Center. He sighed as he led the way out of the arena and into the waning sunshine. It was a brisk, cold day and the sunset was beautiful. And he was an Olympian. He refused to let fear spoil his experience.

* * *

Arthur was halfway through his unappetizing spaghetti and meatballs dinner when he spied Merlin approaching. Immediately, he felt his mood shift and his mind spark with ideas of how to gain the upper hand. It wasn't that Arthur didn't like him; Merlin was principled, opinionated and plucky-a rare combination. It was obvious that no one was granted respect from Merlin unless they had earned it, which made Arthur want to aggressively befriend him and insult him all at the same time.

Merlin opened with an open-ended, "How's dinner?"

"Faintly alarming that they consider these meatballs," Arthur said, picking up one of the spongy balls with a curl of distaste on his lips.

"Thought as much. I'm veggie anyway. Room for one?"

"Be my guest," Arthur gestured to the empty seats beside him. "Where are your mates?"

"They're watching a friend of ours, Elena, practice on the downhill. I was too famished to wait."

"I can see why. Caught your match today." Arthur felt a grin stretch his cheeks, prompting a curious look from Merlin.

"And?" Merlin slid his salad on to the table and sat across from Arthur.

"I have to admit, it was rather...not boring. More interesting than I anticipated."

Merlin nodded eyebrows raised. "And?"

"You had a few good throws in there."

Merlin smiled and happily set to fixing his salad. "Knew you'd like it. Trouble with curling is that no one ever takes the time to watch it longer than five minutes. If they do, they're hooked. So? You thought I was brilliant."

"Pardon me?" Arthur raised his eyebrows.

"You gave me a compliment."

Arthur snorted. "Hardly."

"You said I had a few good throws. When put through the arse-filter, that's practically a fangirl squeal."

"You're mental. When's the last time you had protein?" Arthur gestured at his salad.

"This morning. At least, I like to be optimistic and think that was an egg casserole. Might have been something else. Hard to tell."

"Agree. My stomach didn't like it either way."

Merlin paused, his expression melting into solemnity as he nosed his fork around the lettuce a bit. "So I heard something earlier. That you might be receiving threats anonymously."

Arthur bowed his head, instantly frustrated. "Something that was not supposed to be public knowledge."

"Yeah, I figured that. I have to apologize. Seems that I encouraged you to go and get one of the...um...threats at the front desk. I didn't know." Arthur gestured vaguely and Merlin understood he didn't hold it against him. "Is there any way I can help?"

Arthur looked at him, puzzled. "Can't think of how. I already have a bodyguard. And, no offense, but you don't look like you'd be of much help in a fight."

Merlin flushed and sat back in his chair. "And we're back to insults again."

"I said no offense."

"It's not a magic phrase that allows you say anything you want to anyone. Prat."

Arthur considered his words. "Not a magic phrase. Really? Usually works." He quirked a smile at Merlin. "On normal people."

Merlin's eyes went flat. "Back to arse, then. I guess you're right. There's nothing I can really do to help you, is there? Best of luck. I'll just take my abnormal, helpless self back to my room."

Arthur watched Merlin grab his food, uncomfortably searching for something to say and realizing that every word that wanted to come out of his mouth was an insult. Literally. It had something to do with those death threats being public knowledge and something else to do with how Arthur usually related to people. This was how he and his friends got along; they took the piss. Merlin was different, apparently.

Arthur pushed away his mystery meatballs and sat back in his chair. Maybe he was destined to offend the guy every time they met. Sure felt like it.


	3. Chapter 3

Over the next two days, Arthur felt his world shrink down to the practice rink and the words of his coach. He did his best to forget the vague threats he'd received, the watching world, and anything else that distracted him. It wasn't easy to do. The men's short program was approaching, and with it, a chance to change his life forever: to prove that the lifetime of training was worth it, that the money and hope and trust invested in him had been well spent.

It was a common enough story here among these other athletes and Arthur wasn't here to whinge or to look for some existential purpose to his years of wasted youth. To the contrary, he thought it a noble sort of life- to pursue perfection in order to represent your country.

Arthur had grown up with the goal of being an Olympian for Great Britain like his father. Uther Jamieson had been a distance skier, a household name during his prime. Arthur's earliest love had been hockey, but his father had been appalled that he would consider something so common as worth his time.

It was apparent, though, that Arthur was good on the ice and perhaps it was inevitable that a figure skating coach would contact them. He'd taken one look at Arthur's strong legs and perfect balance and said he'd love to work with him. It turned out that the coach had been a fan of Uther's back in the day and...that was the end of Arthur's normal life. Everything else had slowly fallen by the wayside as he began to train.

Fast forward to now, when all those years of sacrifice weighed in on a single night, on three minutes of one program that could end his career or begin a new chapter in it. It was enough pressure to make Arthur long to be distracted occasionally and so easy to give in when dreams were being shattered and fulfilled and reborn at a near fever pitch. Obviously, one of the American figure skaters, Jeremy Abbott, felt the same way. He moved out of his room and into a nearby Sochi motel, valuing sleep over the heady experience of the Olympic village.

Arthur scoffed at the news along with everyone else, though he, like Abbott, had brought his own air mattress to sleep on. He had expected the conditions at Sochi to be subpar, though the reality was far worse than anyone had thought. How could clean water ever considered to be a luxury? Or were working lamps, cleared sidewalks and manhole covers?

To be truthful, at first, it was easy to overlook. Arthur was just as amused by the _#sochiproblems_ Twitter account as the rest of the world.

Then there came the day that he was somehow locked into his bathroom. It was mid-morning, about an hour before Arthur was scheduled to rehearse at the Iceberg Skating Palace. Since he had a room to himself, courtesy of his father, he hadn't locked the bathroom door; it simply jammed once it closed and would not open. Arthur banged harder and harder on the walls of the bathroom to get someone's attention, preferably his bodyguard's, but no one heard him.

After a frustrating few minutes, he found that a well-placed punch cracked the door in the center. From there it was a simple matter of jabbing hard at the door over and over until it gave way. His junior boxing days had been of definite benefit. From there, he forced his way through the sizeable hole and, astounded, took a picture of what was left.

The door was cheaply made, consisting of what looked like cardboard in the center, so it wasn't nearly all that impressive a feat. But it was hilarious enough to Tweet anyway.

His bodyguard hadn't been chastised at all when he'd discovered what had happened; he nearly laughed his Korean arse off. Arthur found himself smiling as he considered how much fun it would be to tell Merlin and watch his expression. Perhaps it would make up for that last conversation if they had a laugh at Arthur's expense.

But their schedules didn't match up that day, and practice went horribly for Arthur. Wonderful that the journalists and cameras were there to capture it all. He nearly put on a ballcap to go incognito to Merlin's curling match: Great Britain versus Germany.

It wasn't a decisive victory for the GB team, but it was exciting to watch. They were forced to come from behind twice, and not until Germany's final hammer throw had missed its mark did they manage a 7 to 6 victory.

Merlin's brilliant grin and hilarious jig of celebration made Arthur forget himself and laugh out loud. If there were any justice in the world, that jig would have gone viral. However, Arthur had a feeling that it would be overlooked in the media, because it was _curling_. He was beginning to understand Merlin's frustration with how his sport was perceived and...yes, well, Arthur wanted to make up for his own part in that frustration.

But at dinner, Merlin was surrounded by well-wishers and hangers-on and Arthur didn't feel like attempting to break into his bubble. He ate a quiet dinner listening to Gwaine complain about the men's ice hockey team not qualifying and Percival lamenting his fall in the mens 1500m speed skate. He added his own complaints.

According to the media Evgeny Plushenko, the Russian ice skater in his fourth Olympics, was expected to take the gold in the men's competition. And with the way the Russian skaters had been scored so far, it seemed likely. Arthur gritted his teeth; his focus should be on skating his best, but he had a sinking feeling that this was going to send his father into orbit.

That night, when Arthur returned to his room after an relaxed flexibility class, the door was standing wide open. Quickly, Chun pushed ahead and drew his gun, motioning to Arthur to stay put. The hallway was deserted, buzzing with that odd hum that was quickly becoming familiar throughout the hotel. After a long few minutes, Arthur was allowed inside. Nothing was missing and nothing looked amiss.

"Perhaps the maid forgot to lock it," Chun surmised.

"Let's keep this one to ourselves," Arthur suggested, heading for the couch. It was difficult to predict which of the two things his father would be more exercised about: Arthur's fall during practice, or the continued lax security here at the hotel. Either way, Putin's Russian military security was going to get involved if there were any more incidents surrounding Arthur. Uther Jamieson would make sure of that. And wasn't that all Arthur needed to make his Olympics spectacular?

Chun headed out with no comment. Arthur turned on the telly and flipped channels, trying to distract himself but quickly growing frustrated with reading the translation at the bottom of the screen. The last thing he needed was more tension. He showered (no-his bathroom door had _not_ been fixed) and got into bed early, feeling exhausted.

Unfortunately, his mind took that opportunity to gear up, replaying the fall he'd had while attempting the quad. A sort of a nightmare, since it had been surely recorded and commented on by all the attending journalists. "Has Arthur Jamieson lost his nerve?" Arthur turned over onto his side, grumbling. There would be heavy discussion of that fall in his future. But there were two more days of practice and he had time to perfect it.

Arthur finally fell asleep listening to the humming of the lights in the hallway and the light tread of feet outside.

* * *

Merlin was having a bad morning. It had all started the day before, with the bloodiest, blackest luck against Sweden which resulted in a stinging loss, 8 to 4. All right, maybe their curling hadn't been the best, but it truly seemed like the ice was against them. Nearly every throw of Merlin's went left of where he was aiming, probably because his right knee was stressed from overuse and his balance was off.

Which led to his coach recommending a visit to the banya, a kind of Russian bathhouse, to get a massage along with a few of the other guys on the curling team. The sauna part was brilliant, but the massage left him sore and uncomfortable. It probably had something to do with the eucalyptus leaves they insisted on beating him with, even after Merlin protested. They were pushy male masseuses and for the first time, it didn't come in handy to speak Russian. Since he could speak their language, they felt free to boss him around like one of their own.

"Это улучшит кровообращение," one told him as they were beating him across the back with the thin twigs of eucalyptus, something about how the circulation of his blood would improve from this treatment.

To the amusement of everyone else present, the Russian man added, in English, "It will make you manly like real, Russian man."

Merlin had groaned and buried his head in his arms. Even the Russians were questioning his manliness.

Afterward, he tried to complain to Gwen that maybe his skin was too sensitive ("Maybe?" Gwen had said, laughing,) and that welts left by eucalyptus leaves weren't relaxing in the least. But at least it was something to write home about. Will would be howling with laughter.

As Merlin walked over to the cafeteria for lunch the idea popped into his head that Arthur would probably howl with laughter as well if he ever heard that story as well. Merlin shuddered. Nope. He would not tell Arthur about this- _ever._

But when he saw him at lunch, Arthur looked even worse than Merlin felt. His bodyguard was sitting with him, talking and gesturing forcefully.

Merlin knew that things hadn't been going well for Arthur, either. The fall he'd had in practice the day before had caused a flurry of media coverage that had far eclipsed that dedicated to GB's loss in curling. If that's what it meant to be the media's darling, then Arthur could have it. It was far nicer to have one's ups and downs to oneself and the few hundred genuine curling fans.

Merlin abruptly changed direction and headed for Arthur's table. The skater aimed a gesture at his bodyguard, cutting him off abruptly and excusing the man with a look.

Merlin sat down, noting that Arthur looked even worse up close. "You look terrible. Did something happen?"

"Oh, so you're insulting me now?"

Merlin flushed slightly and nodded. "Turnabout is fair play." He offered a small smile as an apology.

"I suppose," Arthur said, smiling in return, his tired eyes looking kinder and more gentle than Merlin had seen them before. Apparently, they were now friends. A curious way to begin a friendship.

"Having trouble sleeping?"

"You could say that." Arthur leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, pressing his clasped hands to his mouth a moment. "Three nights ago, someone broke into my room and replaced my alarm with one that would go off at 3:30 in the morning, no matter how it was set. It wouldn't shut off until I yanked out the cord. Then, two nights ago, I returned to my room to find the door wide open. This morning, I awoke to find the same thing: the wide open and light flooding into the room. At 3:30."

"You're joking."

"Oh, if only I were."

"But-you have a bodyguard. Where was he?"

"Apparently, just around the corner, investigating a scream. When he came back, the door was wide open and I was...wide awake."

"Bloody hell. That must have been terrifying." Arthur shrugged slightly, which Merlin guessed was as close to an admission as he was going to get. "Did your roommates see anything? Hear anything?"

There was a pause before Arthur spoke. "I have a room to myself."

"Rubbish! How is that even..." Merlin shook his head. "Well. Obviously_ I_ know all the wrong people."

"It's my father," Arthur gestured loosely. "He likes to make things happen, cause a big stir. He was an Olympian himself, so...there you go. Strings pulled. Rather easily."

"Have there been any more threats?"

"No."

"And are you moving out?"

"No," Arthur said, his eyes flashing, "I will not be run out of the Olympic Village."

"Don't blame you. It does seem wrong after you worked so hard to be here." Arthur raised his eyebrows and Merlin flushed again. "I watched a documentary-just the one, though-and only because my friend, Gwen, is an hysterical, hyperventilating fan of yours. You'll want to stay away."

"Thanks for the warning. But you're not a fan?"

"I..." Merlin paused awkwardly.

"My delicate ego is feeling rather slighted," Arthur said with an amused look in his eyes that said otherwise.

"No need," Merlin assured him. "I'll be pulling for you tomorrow as hard as anyone- promise. But I'd like to consider myself more of a friend than a fan, if that's all right with you."

Arthur graced him with a relaxed smile. "Of course."

"Good. Then you'll probably understand why I'm offering to switch rooms."

"No-no, I probably won't," Arthur said, sitting up straight, "not unless you're aiming at securing my queen-size air mattress."

"Your what?" Merlin repeated, dumbfounded. "You brought your own-no, never mind. Of course you did. What I'm proposing is that we switch rooms tonight. You take my room, where no one will even think to harass you and I take yours."

"You'd do that for me?"

Merlin smiled "Of course."

"But I hardly know you."

"Nonsense. We're fellow countrymen and _friends_ and so...see? We do that sort of thing for one another," Merlin said, his smile widening in a way he could only hope wasn't too irritatingly bright.

"Friends...jeopardize their medal chances by switching rooms so that they receive the brunt of the attention from a crazed maniac intent on terrorizing athletes into an acceptable outcome?"

Merlin's eyes widened. _Crazed maniac?_ He swallowed and pushed that thought aside. "Yes. Exactly," he said, raising his chin.

Arthur stared at him for a moment, shaking his head. "I shouldn't let you do this," he muttered, "but if things continue on as they have been... And the worst you'll get is less sleep for one night. I could leave my bodyguard there as well."

"Won't make much of a difference, will it? It's not as if he's doing that great of a job," Merlin whispered with as little breath as possible.

"I agree," Arthur whispered back. "But if he's not there guarding my room, it will be obvious to anyone watching that something is off."

Merlin raised his eyebrows, tilting his head slightly to the side. "Good point. Then I'll take the bodyguard, and my roommates will come with me so your highness can have a single room again. Wouldn't want to throw you off your game, you know." Arthur started to interrupt, but Merlin kept talking. "And you can take the mattress, since apparently, your backside is too good for a regular, Russian ложе."

"No. If we're seen moving mattresses about, they really will know that something is wrong. You take the air mattress. Tonight, I could sleep on anything as long as I'm not interrupted."

"Bloody brilliant. It's settled then." Merlin smiled, giving an almost bounce in his chair. "Knew I could help."

"It does look like I was wrong about that. Will you accept my apology?"

"Of course. Friends and such."

"Fair warning: I'm going to want to have a lie down early. Can you be ready to switch by six?"

"Absolutely. I...just have to track down my mates and let them know," Merlin frowned a bit before his face cleared. "I'll catch them at the rink later. Another day, another match."

"Good. Now. Eat your food. You keep stomping off before you finish anything. No wonder you're so skinny."

Merlin just smiled as he started on his wilted greens. "That's enough of that, Mum."

Merlin awoke slowly, to a strange scraping sound. It was muffled, as though something were being moved slowly across carpet. He was fairly sure that it had invaded his dreams.

But now that he was awake, it had stopped.

Frustrated, Merlin opened his eyes and grunted, throwing up a hand up to shade them. Why was there a bright light shining in his face? He'd been sleeping so well on Arthur's...

With a sudden jolt of clarity, Merlin remembered: Arthur, death threats, switching rooms, using a heavy chair to block the door...which was now _unblocked..._and standing wide open...

An icy tendril of fear caught Merlin's breath.

Then a blur of dark movement broke through the light and Merlin jerked back as someone came at him.

His thoughts fragmented.

A man. In Arthur's room.

Not just unlocking the door.

_No-_

Merlin grabbed for the broom handle he'd tucked under the air mattress and then it was too late.

Big, meaty hands hauled him up, his every muscle tense, every instinct screaming at him to fight for his life.

One-handed, Merlin swung the handle with the familiarity of a curler and clubbed the man on the head. Satisfaction drowned out the panic for a just a moment and then reality in the shape of a fist collided with his face.

It hurt-so much more than he would have thought-and he couldn't get his breath back.

The man was swearing in Russian, something foul made even fouler by the fumes of his vodka breath. Merlin clutched at him helplessly and tried to get his head upright. But another punch slammed Merlin's head into the wall and he collapsed.

Merlin found himself a few seconds later, grasping at the covers, thoughtless, broken Russian words streaming from his lips. "нет, остановитесь, пожалуйста."

The stench of stale sweat overcame the fumes of the man's breath as he leaned into Merlin, muttering in garbled Russian, something that sounded like a question. Merlin twisted away and desperately kicked both legs out, earning a pained grunt and a few seconds to gather himself as the man's bulk moved off.

He slid to the floor on his knees reaching to find the broom handle again when he heard footsteps coming his direction. The handle jumped into his hands and he swung it, hard. It connected and there was an angry howl.

_"Merlin?"_ came a sleepy voice from across the room.

"Here," he rasped to his roommate, standing up. "Someone's broken in." Merlin held the handle out in front of him, advancing blindly. Suddenly, it was grasped on the other end and jabbed mercilessly into Merlin's gut.

The pain hit him like a gun shot. He bent over in agony, falling, one hand on his stomach, one hand to the floor.

_"Merlin?"_ David's voice gathered strength. _"What the actual bloody...where's the light?"_

Above him that guttural voice muttered something about the British, but Merlin's hazy mind couldn't translate the words into anything but hatred.

Then a heavy boot slammed down on his outstretched hand.

The fine bones gave way with a crunch that sent explosions of bright color spiraling into his vision. From far away, he heard himself scream hoarsely and voices-so many voices...

Merlin didn't faint exactly, but he remained locked deep inside himself, trembling, unable to open his eyes or to reassure anyone.

He heard it all as they tried to uncurl his body from around his hand, the hand which at first had felt searingly hot and now felt icy cold. He heard the exclamations of horror and the calls for help but was beyond caring by then.

After that mad flurry of hatred and violence and agony, all he wanted was to roll up into a cocoon of darkness and silence and sleep. So he did.


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur was woken at nearly 7 a.m. by his cell ringing twice. That would be his coach. Arthur groaned and rolled over. A minute later, his phone beeped as a text came through. That would be his coach again. Arthur reached over, nearly falling off the bed in the process. Damn beds were tiny.

_Breakfast at 7:15 sharp. Don't stop to chat with anyone. Today is the biggest day of your career._

Arthur frowned and put his cell back down rather indelicately. He hoped Merlin had slept well on the nice, soft, heated air mattress. It wouldn't be a hardship to give up this small, hard bed at all. A niggle of worry bothered his conscience, as it had been on and off since Merlin had made the suggestion yesterday.

After ten hours of blissful sleep, it was hard to say that switching rooms had been a bad idea, but he wouldn't feel better until he knew for sure that Merlin hadn't had a bad night.

He showered and got dressed, reading the two more texts from his coach, the second one again asking him not to talk to anyone on the way to breakfast. _Why?_ Damn press had probably reported something annoying about him.

As Arthur locked and closed the door behind him, he stopped short. An unfamiliar black man was standing and waiting on him, arms crossed behind his back, weight evenly balanced between his feet. If Arthur didn't know any better...

"Who are you?"

"My name is Elyan. I'm your new bodyguard," he said in a clipped but soft voice.

Arthur's gut clenched tight and that niggle of worry grew horns and claws. "And _why_ do I need a new bodyguard?" The man hesitated and Arthur held up a hand. "Never mind. Just-just wait a minute." With as much efficiency as Arthur could manage while his mind was racing, he unlocked the door, closed it and, as a precaution, locked it behind him.

Then he rang his father.

"Arthur? Why are you calling me? And at this hour? You should be-"

"Why do I have a new bodyguard? I'm assuming it was you who hired another one."

"Of course it was me. The other one completely useless. It was only thanks to your good thinking that kept you from ending up in the infirmary. Thank god you had the presence of mind to-"

Arthur felt as he'd been dipped in ice water. It took some time to form words. "Who's in the infirmary? _Merlin?"_

"Well, I'm sure I don't know his name, but it was the man you petitioned to switch rooms. It was a brilliant move, Arthur, and you can't blame yourself-"

"Can't blame myself for what? What happened?"

Uther sighed. "Can we not we skip the drama, Arthur? If it hadn't been him, it would have been _you_ and to be blunt, he is far more easily replaced-"

"Goodbye, Father. I'll talk to you later," Arthur interrupted, already exited the room again. He locked up and gestured at his security guard before taking off at a jog.

His mind was racing, ticking through all the possibilities-Merlin badly injured, Merlin unable to throw for the curling team, Merlin injured fatally-and all of it, whatever it was, Arthur's fault.

By the time he reached his coach waiting in the cafeteria, Arthur's chest was tight with emotion and his face stiff from showing none of it. Was it his imagination, or was the entire cafeteria more subdued this morning?

George Clayworth stood behind the table, beaming at him, lifting his hands in greeting. "Arthur, welcome to the morning of the biggest day in your-"

"Where's the infirmary?" Arthur said, trying to modulate his tone into something more acceptable.

George looked perplexed. "This is your breakfast, Arthur," he motioned to the two plates dripping with food, "and it's highly important-"

"That I get to the infirmary now. Unless you'd care to explain to me what happened last night in my room and why my bodyguard has been sacked and why the British Curling Team is down one _member!"_ Arthur was yelling by the end of his speech and had slammed his hand down loudly enough to call the attention of every person in the room.

George had gone pale. He squeaked, something Arthur had never seen him do before. "Yes, well, I believe the infirmary is this way," and he walked toward the door, nodding and smiling uneasily at everyone watching.

Arthur stalked after him, furious that his coach had known what had happened and had been trying to keep it from him. It was a good thing that George was walking so quickly, because if Arthur's hands came into contact with his neck it would not be a good thing for either of them, especially on the biggest day of Arthur's career.

Once, George tried to explain, "Arthur, this is unscheduled and ill-advised. You skate in the short program later today and we don't even know the order yet! If you overexert yourself-"

Arthur gave him what he hoped was a death glare and George squeaked again.

"Very well, very well. But breakfast must be eaten, later!" he said raising one finger like it constituted a major proclamation.

Arthur pushed ahead as soon as he saw the open atrium that was the entry to the injury infirmary. Light filtered down from numerous skylights above, making it glow with a blessing from above. It was a modern, beautiful space, but Arthur ignored it in favor of the door leading in. From there, he only glanced at the girl behind the desk and stalked straight ahead where he spied his previous bodyguard lying down on a cushioned cot, one arm thrown over his eyes.

"What's wrong with you?" Arthur demanded, angling his head so that he could look into his eyes.

Chun looked woozy when he lifted his arm, and it took a few seconds for his gaze to find Arthur. "Drugged...with something. Must have been...dinner."

Arthur's mouth tightened. "Why did they drug you? What's happened?" For every second that his bodyguard hesitated, Arthur felt his nerves tighten until he had to clench his fist to control the urge to get an answer forcefully.

The quiet reply stole his breath and when it returned, it brought with it a fury that colored the edges of his vision red. Arthur found that his mouth was moving although he no longer knew exactly what he was saying, only that he was saying it loudly and then he was striding past the nervous Russian lady toward the hallway where more rooms were laid out.

The infirmary was open and airy inside, each room shut off from the hallway by a plexiglass wall that allowed everyone to see what was going on inside. He found Merlin easily. Arthur's new bodyguard moved to prevent him from entering, but there was no need. Arthur was transfixed at the sight of Merlin stretched out on a thin cot, paler than milk except where bruises and blood marred the skin on his face. His eyes were shut tight, his body moving ceaselessly against the sheets in minute motions of quiet agony. His left hand was propped up on a plastic brace. The Russian doctor had a hold on Merlin's left arm while a doctor Arthur recognized from the British team was manipulating Merlin's hand.

Merlin bit his bottom lip bloody until a cry was finally wrenched from him and Arthur jerked as though he'd been shocked. He looked away and began pacing, tension focusing itself between his brows. Guilt and fear and anger and more guilt had him tied up so tight inside that he just couldn't hold it back anymore.

He turned, finding himself in some sort of meeting room with a table and chairs. When he saw the Russian receptionist following him, he bellowed, "What kind of place is this? Why isn't he medicated?"

She began to answer him, placating words about how Merlin had been given something to relax him as they set his hand.

"Relax? You call that relaxed? I call it bloody torture! He's a British citizen and deserves better than this chop shop!" Arthur went on, unable to stop himself from denigrating the Russian people, the Russian medical system and the bloody buggering idiot who designed the injury infirmary who was _obviously_ a sadist.

The lady blinked her pale blue eyes, straightened her shoulders and told him in heavily accented English to calm down. Arthur huffed and turned away. He'd just wasted the full frontal of his displeasure on someone who didn't probably understand English. He focused on breathing instead of how very much he wished he had something heavy in his hand with which he could bash things.

There was a pause and then the lady stepped closer. "Do you...know that man in there?"

Which just pissed him off more. Arthur leaned over the table toward her. "Of course I do. I just have no idea why-how this-what are they doing to him?" He pounded his fist once and pulled away, trying to control himself.

"I know what they are doing," she said tentatively. Arthur gave her his profile, trying to calm his breathing as he listened carefully to what she told him in halting English-the whole story of how an assailant broke into Arthur's room. He attacked Merlin, leaving bruises on his face and contusions on his abdomen and a complex fracture to his left hand.

In fact, the man had stomped on Merlin's hand. _On purpose._

Arthur, feeling suddenly light-headed, sat down heavily in a chair.

George, hovering in the doorway, left to get him some water, nattering on about nutrients or something and the biggest day of his career...

Arthur couldn't fathom it.

If Merlin hadn't taken his place, that might be him in there now, with a debilitating injury given purposefully to leave him unable to compete. Apparently, if Merlin's roommates hadn't fought back and chased the assailant down the hall, it would have been worse. Their interference led to the assailant being captured. He was now being questioned thoroughly.

Arthur was up and pacing the length of the infirmary in seconds. There was no way to fix this; there was nothing he could do. Merlin had gone silent and still on the cot, which made Arthur feel both better and worse. This was Arthur's fault. He'd been threatened and now they had followed through on those threats. Why had he let Merlin convince him to switch rooms?

George had returned and was harassing Arthur to drink some water when Merlin's coach Lance Dulac came striding in. He glanced at Arthur before continuing on to Merlin's room.

"Wait!" Arthur called out and hurried over to the man. When faced with such a careful expression of veiled anger, Arthur found it difficult to speak. "Will Merlin...will he be able to compete?"

Lance gave him with a level look. "Not today or even probably tomorrow. It wasn't his throwing hand that was broken, but he's sustained severe bruising to his abdomen. By all rights, he should be in bed recovering for weeks." A sudden, dull moan pulled their attention back to the room for a moment. "But knowing Merlin, he'll want to be up tomorrow and back out on the ice."

Arthur nodded. He couldn't smile over the sick feeling in his stomach. "Please, tell him...I had no idea. It should be me in there. I would trade places if I could."

Lance gave a ghost of a smile. "You have to skate for Great Britain today." He paused, hand on the doorknob. "Merlin's already said he's glad it's him and not you."

Arthur stared, stunned, as Lance slipped into the room. The coach went over to Merlin and stood beside him. Clumsily, Merlin reached up with his right hand and Lance grasped it, bending over to speak softly to him. Arthur forced himself to look away, pinching his bottom lip as his eyes started to water.

Somebody wanted Arthur too injured to skate-too broken and frightened to even have a go. They had incapacitated Merlin, thinking it was Arthur on that bloody air mattress.

A dull rage began simmering in Arthur's gut and his cheeks began to burn hot. There was nothing he could do here. But there was one way he could send a message to the arseholes who were behind all of this.

This time when George fluttered around him, Arthur gave a curt response, drank the damn water and followed his coach. Next, breakfast. Then, warming up for what was going to be the best bloody buggering short program of his life.

Which he would skate for Merlin.

And then he would just see how well those bastards messing with his life would like that.

* * *

Merlin was woozy and goofy on pain meds, but still maintained an impressive level of bossiness-which seemed to surprise everyone.

"Why aren't you asleep?" the nurse kept asking him.

"Wanna see Arthur skate," he slurred as he concentrated on not moving his left hand at all. Occasionally, frissons of fiery pain would dart through it and only keeping it absolutely still helped.

"Merlin, you should rest," Lance told him again.

"Nope. Gonna see Arthur skate," he said vehemently. "Then sleep. I meeeeeean, _I_ sleep. Not Arrrrrrthrrrrrr. Not gonna watch Arrrrrthr skate and sleep." There were so many Rs in Arthur's name, but giggling made Merlin's hand hurt, so he had to stop trying to explain.

Finally, to shut him up, Lance got him his laptop and they streamed the broadcast from an British network showing it live. All the top skaters had drawn numbers for the short program. Arthur was in the third group, along with the American Jeremy Abbott and several skaters Merlin didn't know.

He watched a little before giving in and napping, only to wake when the whole curling team stopped by before going to compete against Switzerland. Since Merlin couldn't throw, they had pulled in GB's alternate and chosen Murdoch, their shining Scotsman, to be skip. He would do a great job; Merlin reassured him of that and tried to smile cheerily as he wished them GB's best luck. The team rallied then, saying their goodbyes. There were a few tears mixed in with the sympathy which somehow made Merlin feel both worse and better at the same time. After they left, he was ready to be distracted.

The nurse set up the computer again and he saw that the second group of skaters were taking the ice to warm up. There was the Russian skater Plushenko, whose nose was uniquely Russian and whose name made him sound like a stuffed animal. Merlin giggled to himself, then groaned. He really shouldn't laugh. That pain medication only took the edge off of that horrible, deep bruise in his gut. It hadn't torn the muscle, but the impact of the jab was going to take weeks to fade.

Merlin sobered quickly. The man who attacked him last night had been Russian. It seemed that whoever didn't want Arthur to skate might be Russian, too. It was all some horrible plot and now Merlin couldn't curl at the _Olympics_ because of it.

There was a hot flash of anger in Merlin's gut and his body tensed. The immediate throb of pain made him regret the response. _Relax_, he warned himself. Just about that time, he realized that he had missed something onscreen. Plushenko was pulling off to the side, wincing. But he hadn't fallen, had he?

Merlin listened in amazement as the commentators explained that Plushenko had landed a jump incorrectly and pulled a muscle. He would be _unable_ to skate. _What?_ The man who had led the Russian team to a gold medal just days ago would be unable to skate for a men's individual medal.

Merlin felt slightly guilty. It almost felt like he'd _made_ that happen...

After another hour of watching, Merlin felt crippled by pain and was glad to see the nurse coming in with more meds. They hadn't built up in his system yet, so the spikes of pain were hard to bear.

He might have even shed a few tears while drinking water to down the pills, but since no one but the sweet, sympathetic nurse saw them, they didn't count. He had to lay flat for a few minutes before the the medicine kicked in. By then they were calling Arthur's group to warm up. Merlin asked the nurse to turn up the volume, which she did with an exasperated glance.

"You should sleep again soon. Yes?"

Merlin agreed, but his attention was Arthur, whose warm-up jumps looked incredible. His face was focused, composed and he looked splendid in his Robin's Egg Blue costume. Merlin tried not to giggle at the thought of Arthur in a robin costume, but with the pain meds apparently came a bit of lunacy as well. It was a stunning image in his mind-Arthur in a bright blue unitard with feathers on the shoulders and a little feathery cap perched on his head. If you looked at Arthur the right way, his nose did look rather beak-like, so it was kind of perfect...

Merlin tried to banish the thought and the inappropriate giggles, but it wasn't until he felt another lightning bolt of hot pain in his hand that he sobered.

And really, Arthur's costume was both manly and un-befeathered, so it wasn't nice to imagine him in something else. Though when Merlin got better, he might try to draw the robin costume for Arthur, just so he could laugh at it, too.

That thought made Merlin smile all the way until Jeremy Abbot's routine. The skater from the United States fell in a horrendous way on one of his jumps, sliding all the way into the wall and eliciting a gasp from the commentators. He looked to be in serious pain, but still managed to get to his feet and skate the rest of his program. Those jumps were so difficult that sometimes it took a fall to remind everyone of the amazing athletic ability of each of these skaters.

Merlin was relieved that Jeremy had the presence of mind to continue on and that he looked grateful to the supportive audience at the end of his program instead of devastated at his fall. _Good competitor._ But that fall just focused everyone's attention firmly on the next skater: Arthur.

Merlin was watching him with different eyes than most of the world. He was one of the few people who knew of the myriad of pressures on Arthur's back: the media who had declared him a star, his father who apparently had serious gold medal expectations, and an unknown enemy who wanted nothing more than for Arthur to fail and was willing to resort to violence to make that happen.

Merlin felt the first wave of pride that _he_ had been the one to foil that plan, that Arthur wasn't lying in the infirmary but was instead representing GB bravely, in spite of all the threats and problems he'd encountered. How could Arthur have skated with serious bruises or a broken hand or even another night of broken sleep?

So Merlin watched every moment of that triumphant short program with relish and a warm feeling in his heart. Tears pricked his eyes as Arthur landed his first triple with ease and by the fourth jump, Merlin had tears streaming down his cheeks. He didn't try to wipe them away, so it was with blurry vision that he saw Arthur land a quadruple flip and then turn another planned triple into a spur-of-the-moment quadruple, sending the commentators into a frenzy.

When the music finally stopped, Arthur held his dramatic pose a moment, and the cheering started. Merlin wanted nothing more than to applaud as well. Arthur's head was high and his eyes held a fierce message to the watching world, one that Merlin had no trouble translating.

_If you were trying to break me, you __**failed.**_


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur celebrated his second-place program drinking a few ill-advised beers with his best mates, trying to drown out all the voices in his head. It wasn't easy; they were bloody hard to ignore.

Like his father. "Excellent skate, Arthur. But I don't know what was going through your mind that you would change-up a jump at the last second. It could have thrown off your entire program and it smacks of desperation and an undisciplined mind. That is not how we want to win the gold, Arthur."

Like Viktor Borovsky, the Russian head of security for the Sochi Olympic Games. "Excuse the question, if you please, but explain how did you know to switch rooms with the unfortunate man of whom is named Merlin?"

Yes, that had happened. Straight after Arthur's performance and the scoring with the requisite hugs and congratulations, they had pulled Arthur into a stark white room, saying "Just a few questions, if you please, for the strong competitor."

Arthur had agreed, leaving behind his half-panicked coach and his serenely nodding bodyguard only because he had expected this, at the very least, and not because the wide smile of the man in charge was in any way reassuring. Quite the opposite. Once the three officials crowded into the room and began conversing quietly in Russian, Arthur found himself gripping the arms of the chair as inobtrusively as possible. The quiet, sterile atmosphere transported him instantly into a torture scene of one of his least favorite Cold War movies.

But despite his misgivings, what followed was a simple questioning, one that led Arthur to believe his former security guard had been incompetent or hamstrung by Uther's micromanaging of the situation: apparently, he had kept most of the threats on Arthur's life a secret from the Putin's Olympic Security Team. It wasn't until they questioned Merlin's attacker that they realized there was a backstory of threats and harassment that should have been curtailed much sooner. Had Chun not already been back on an outbound flight to England, Arthur would have personally paid him a very unpleasant visit.

When Viktor understood the situation, he began barking orders in Russian and issuing stilted apologies in English. "If only we had known, we could have prevented the attack. You will be addressed into a new, more secure room on the top floor, where we have the most...shall we say temperamental situations taken care of."

Torn between being reassured and suspicious, Arthur had cleared his throat several times before asking if his new bodyguard would be able to accompany him to the room.

Viktor assured him that he would be safe without a bodyguard.

Arthur smiled and stood, drawing from a lifetime of these sort of situations. "Of course I would be safe. But my bodyguard would be without a job and, poor sod, I promised his mother I would keep him employed." He laughed and there were smiles and stilted laughs from around the room.

In the end, it was agreed. Arthur would get a new room on a higher-security floor where his bodyguard was welcome. There would be added security around the rink whenever Arthur was practicing or preparing to compete. He would only need to call ahead and warn them. It sounded nearly ideal, though Viktor was quick to add that the security already in place would be sufficient.

Before he exited the room, several of the men expressed sincere appreciation for the beautiful program he had skated that evening. This was something Arthur had come to appreciate while here, that the Russians viewed themselves as an artistic people and truly were enthusiastic about art of all types and artists as a group. But Arthur was still taken aback as they lamented the scoring that placed his program lower than that of Yuzuru and sent Arthur off with claps on the back and smiles. It was truly one of the strangest meetings of his life.

Needing a few drinks to relax, Arthur headed to the Holland Heineken House where his mates had decided to hang with the Dutch. Night after night in Sochi, the crowd there had grown and the pub was quickly becoming the stuff of legend. Tonight the orange-lit building was pulsing with music and party-goers were traversing all over the grounds. Inside, it was wall-to-wall athletes and Arthur had a hard time finding his mates. He was about to give up when they jumped on him from behind-Gwaine leading the way, of course.

"You great big, bloody, beautiful man," Gwaine yelled over the noise, kissing Arthur on both cheeks and gazing deep into his eyes. "You skated like a bloody blue butterfly, you did."

Arthur shoved him away good-naturedly as Gwaine turned the crowd. "Didn't he? Didn't he skate like a ruddy, bloomin' butterfly?" The cheers and shouts back half embarrassed Arthur and half pleased him. "And tomorrow night, he's going to skate like beautiful, blue gold medalist!"

The cheers deafened Arthur and he felt happily smothered in the wave of good feelings. But after a few beers, his bubble of joy deflated quickly. How could he even think of his own happiness when Merlin was lying in the infirmary? A few minutes later, he excused himself.

One street over, Arthur found a flower shop that was just closing up. Businesses in Sochi had learned to cater to the strange hours of tourists and Olympians who were all used to different time zones and tended to do things spontaneously. There he bought the most manly bunch of flowers he could find-chrysanthemums that were a very unusual shade of burnt orange. For variety's sake, he had them mix in some pink ones because those two colors often seemed to go together in Russian folk art. Or at least, he thought they did.

Then he headed back down to the infirmary, glad for the sobering bite of the cold wind. The infirmary was much as he had last left it, except for Merlin's room, which was transformed by flowers and gifts.

Also quite transformed was Merlin himself, by drugs and surprising, manic joy, even at this late hour.

"Arthurrrrr," he said, his bright eyes fixing on him at once. "Look Gwen, it's Arrrthurrrr." Arthur wanted to smile at the way Merlin leaned on the Rs in his name, but the man's face looked so painful that he had to look away instead.

"Oh, it's you," came a terse voice from the other side of the room. Arthur looked up to see a lovely dark-skinned woman with mounds of dark curls looking at him frostily. This must be Gwen, but her eyes were void of the giddy fangirlishness that Merlin had promised Arthur. Instead there was latent hostility. "And why are _you_ here?"

"To apologize. And to visit Merlin," he said quickly, stupidly unnerved by the steady thrum of guilt he felt. "I brought flowers," he offered, sticking out his hand. She stood quickly and moved to intercept them.

"Lovely. I'll take those. Since it hurts him to move," she explained.

"Gwee-eeen," Merlin whined, "don't get shirty! It's Arrr-thurrr."

Arthur glanced over at Merlin and caught once again the bruise and the dark, bloody film over one of his eyes, the puffy cut on one cheek and the dark bruise at his temple. He looked like a brawler.

"'s not as bad as it looks," Merlin murmured.

Gwen stared at Arthur as she replied to Merlin. "That's debatable. And Arthur could have at _least_ put the flowers in a vase."

"He's been a bit busy!" Merlin flopped his one good arm about. "Winning a bloody gold medal, if you hadn't cottoned on."

"Be still, Merlin," she chided and helped settle the sheet back over him. "He's not won it yet. Now, I'll be right back. _Don't_ get him excited," she said to Arthur sternly.

"Not at all," he managed, finding it difficult to speak.

She paused on her way out the door, one hand on the doorframe. "When I came in earlier, he was arguing with that bunch of balloons over there."

Merlin was indignant. "Because they were in my way! _And_ they kept laughing at me _and_ glowing. Very cheeky!"

Arthur smiled. "How much pain medication is he on?"

Merlin said, "not enough," and Gwen said "plenty," at the same time.

"So _do_ try not to get him worked up," she continued. "I'll be back in a tic."

"Not an injured baby hedgehog, Gwen," Merlin called after her, "leave off!"

Arthur felt brave enough to walk closer. "Well, with those enormous eyes of yours and that fuzzy hair, the mistake could be made. Not to mention the ears."

Merlin frowned, which in his current state, came out more like a pout. "Baby hedgehogs have cute ears."

"Oh, well then," Arthur said easily, turning away from the painful sight of Merlin's face, "I must be wrong. Perhaps we should start a campaign, declare that you really are rather like an injured baby lemur instead."

"Not a lemur!" Merlin said, horrified. "Creepy buggers. Have you seen the way they stare? Ugh," he shuddered. Up close it was easy to see that Merlin's eyes were slightly unfocused from the painkillers and the dark, bloody film on his right eye was truly disturbing. Arthur dropped his gaze and felt his ability to speak leave him again.

Then Merlin's whole face transformed. "Ohhhhhh. Now I remember why I was brassed off at the bleedin' balloons- because of you!"

"Me?"

"Yeah. You were skating and the balloons were moving nearer, and glowing-I was warning them off an' the nurse was coming in to see why I was yelling but you were still skating and I said a few choice words because she wouldn't _stop_ fussing and then I stopped because the balloons were glowing so that I almost couldn't even see you!" Merlin got it all out in a rush and then seemed to deflate against the pillow. "But I did." He smiled weakly. "I saw you skate-twice."

"Twice?"

"'Cause they played the...thingee. Where you go reeeeeally slow and they tell all the stuff you did wrong-if you did any, but you didn't-and all they kept saying was good stuff about the edges of your skates and body positions and flair and good landings. It was so nice. But that's when the ruddy balloons were getting cheeky."

"I can't believe you weren't out on painkillers," Arthur said as he pulled up a chair.

Merlin exhaled a loud breath, indignant. "And miss you skate? Not bloody likely." Then he looked sheepish and scratched fumblingly at his cheek. "I did sleep through a few of the earlier skaters. Just caught Jeremy Abbott. He was here a bit ago to get some meds, you know, a nice chappy. Not a typical American at all. Just all smiles. Was expecting Plushenko, but he's too important to come here, I reckon. Oh!" Merlin looked around furtively as though reporters might be lurking in the corners. "I think I may have done him,"he whispered.

Arthur leaned forward. "Done what?"

"Made him, you know, hurt himself?" he whispered.

"How would you have done that?"

Merlin scratched at his ear this time. He seemed to have made the transition to using one hand for everything fairly easily. "Dunno. I was watching and sort of hating Russians in general-sorry, but I was-but well, only because the bloke who did this," he gestured to his immobile arm, "was Russian and sloshed and right beastly. And Plushenko is. Russian, I mean, not beastly."

Arthur must have looked confused because Merlin started up again. "Not that I hate _all_ of them. But he was ready to skate and my hand wasn't half throbbing-"

Arthur stood with a lurch, all of the guilt and frustration coalescing into words. "Stop. Please." Merlin looked up and blinked at him blankly. "This isn't your fault, none of it is. You were just trying to help me and this is where it got you. It's not fair and it's not right. If I could...if there was anyway I could right things somehow-"

"Oh leave off," Merlin interrupted, smiling unevenly. "'s not your fault, either. Despite what your father tells you or what you read in the papers, you're not the center of the universe. Even if nearly half of England does think the sun shines out of your arse."

Relief swamped Arthur so fast that he had to bow his head to the prick of tears. He smiled. "Only _nearly_ half?"

"Now, now," Merlin said softly, "you've done a good day's work, you have. Go and get some rest so you can collect your gold tomorrow. Oi! Is that your new bodyguard Gwen is talking to? I hope he's a bloody sight better than that idiot Chun."

* * *

Merlin passed a restless, pain-filled night and felt no better after waking. He managed to pass the milestone of having his catheter taken out, which meant that he could, finally, get up to use the proper facilities. But the downside was that he actually had to get _up_ to use those facilities. His stomach muscles protested most rigorously and any bump to his left hand made him see stars.

Just a few trips made him decide to forego the visit to the Cube to watch the GB team curling against the Americans at one in the afternoon. But there was no _way_ on earth he was going to miss the men's free program at the Iceberg. When else was he going to have the opportunity to watch his new friend skate for gold?

In late morning, the doctor upped his meds after examining Merlin. Then, it was all good. The room had taken on a glowing, golden sheen and the pain knuckled under the onslaught of bliss. Life was goooooood.

Of course, the one time he slipped up and mentioned leaving, his nurse berated him soundly. So he began to turn it into a joke. Sooner or later, and he was hoping for sooner, she would relax enough to leave him alone. After another hour, that hope was dimming when there was an uproar in the infirmary.

Thankfully, or rather, not thankfully-because who could be thankful for such a horrible thing-but fortuitously for him there was a serious accident on the bobsled course. A worker had been unable to get out of the way when the first manned bobsled was sent down to check the track. The poor bloke had to be airlifted from the mountain to the injury infirmary.

From the moment he came in, silent as death amidst the flurry of doctors and assistants, the atmosphere in the infirmary changed. This was a life-changing injury and one that could have, _should_ have been prevented. The waiting room was soon full of irate Russians and a few conciliatory officials. The workers in the infirmary were run ragged trying to keep everyone informed, comfortable and out of the way.

Merlin, understandably, was relegated to second-class patient. He moved about his room, listening and readying himself for his attempt at breaking free. It sounded like they had debated whether to fly the injured man to a specialist at a Russian hospital, but the distance was a factor, even by helicopter. Sochi truly was in the middle of nowhere.

"The middle of _nowhere,"_ Merlin repeated, giggling to himself as he remembered that line from his favorite episode of _Doctor Who._

"You must be feeling better," his nurse Mithian said, stepping into the room with a smile. She was a young British nurse, a volunteer, who had been on since lunch. With her bright brown eyes, neat brown braid and soothing demeanor, well, Merlin was already half in love with her. Or...maybe it was the drugs, but either way, he couldn't help but adore her. "Are you tired out yet? I can help you lie back down."

"Not just yet," he hedged and blushed just the tiniest bit, "but I was wondering if you'd mind helping me slip on a shirt and trousers. There's been enough trauma out there without exposure to my pasty self in this," he fingered his loose, open hospital gown with distaste.

Mithian dimpled. "Well. I suppose now that you've graduated to using the loo on your own-"

"Enough of that! Cheeky," Merlin called her out with a grin. He lost the smile quickly as she closed the door and helped him, with painstaking slowness, to get his injured hand through the armhole of a new, Tardis-blue shirt.

The movement hurt, in a disturbing, bone-deep kind of way that left him sweating. His hand wasn't healed within the brace, not by a long shot; only surgery would help it heal correctly. The doctors were letting the swelling go back down a bit before trying it, meaning that he was going to have to put off returning to curling for at least a few more days.

And at times like these, Merlin was glad to put it off. All it would take is one stray move to unbalance him on the ice and he would sprawl forward and either use his hands to stop his fall or smash his face on the ice. Neither option looked good to him.

"It's a lovely shirt. Didn't your friend Gwen bring it for you? I thought so," Mithian said in a soothing voice as she steadied him and helped him slip on some comfortable jogging pants one-handed. This was when he truly regretted crushing on his cute nurse, and was forced to be grateful for her professionalism. He straightened up and took a few deep breaths.

"There now. Looks very nice. Gwen was right that it would bring out the blue of your eyes."

The deep breaths didn't help. Merlin felt suddenly weak and couldn't care less what his eyes looked like. Normal clothing felt like heaven against his skin, but it felt even better when Mithian helped him back into bed and pulled up the covers.

"Your color's gone all wrong," she chided him as she held a juice cup with a straw for him to sip. "Too much up and aroundness, I'd say. Do you need more meds? It's a bit early, but only just. Here, why don't we? So when you wake up, you'll be feeling yourself." She walked outside the room quickly and was back with pills and a fresh cup of water. "There, take those. Good. Now, drink as much as you want. There. Now. You stay put. I have to go back out and weather that storm out there. Don't hesitate to push that button if you need me. I'll be back in a jiff."

Merlin's gaze wandered the room restlessly, not a thought in his head. He must have drifted off because fifteen minutes later he woke with a jolt, his eyes wide, like an alarm had gone off beside him. The infirmary had quieted down and the only noise was the steady sound of voices from the waiting room down by Surgery.

_Perfect, _Merlin thought, smiling as he slid out of bed, beyond grateful for the fresh pain meds that made it possible. Mithian was apparently busy and would assume that he was still asleep. But he wasn't! Merlin giggled, feeling very naughty. While they thought he was abed, he would be off to the Iceberg, where he would flash his i.d. and get in to see Arthur skate for a gold medal. _Brilliant!_

Using one hand, Merlin slipped his trainers on. Gwen had thought far enough ahead to retie them for him loosely, so they would be easier to slip on and make his escape. Not that Gwen knew about the escaping part. Merlin giggled again. Wouldn't her face be funny when she found out?

Or...maybe not.

But for some reason that thought made Merlin want to giggle, too. He tried to squash it as he slid down the hall, timing it so that no one saw him. It took intense focus to be so quiet and...and-

Something caught his eye just as he was at the door. It was a horrendous Russian poncho hanging with the other jackets on the hall tree, so rainbow bright in its crocheted glory-so sad and neglected but so abso-bloody-lutely perfect for someone who wanted to stay warm but not put his arms through armholes, like Merlin.

Quite in awe, Merlin stood and looked at it. It was as if someone _knew_ he would need it and put it there ahead of time. Or it was as if by magic-okay, maybe mad, horribly tacky magic, but magic nonetheless! Taken by the idea, he glanced around, half-expecting to see a leprechaun giving him a wink before disappearing.

But he was still alone, so he put on the hideous monstrosity, discovering that in addition its rainbow powers of ultimate ugliness, it also had cool brown pompoms that swung to and fro from the fringe on the bottom-and a hoodie on the back! _Brilliant! _

Merlin slipped outside, ludicrously feeling as though he'd donned an Invisibility Cloak or a bulletproof vest...or both! He found himself sidling down the walls like a secret agent, the _Mission Impossible_ theme song running through his head.

"Duh duh _**Duh**_ duh! Duh duh _**Duh**_ duh! Duh duh _**Duh**_ duh! Duh duh _**Duh**_ duh_..."_

And okay, he might be humming it, too. And getting a few strange looks. But nobody would recognize him in the rainbow poncho of awesomeness and _even_ _**better**_-nobody could see his injured hand, either. It was like the poncho was a giant eraser, erasing the parts of himself that he didn't want anyone to see!

Merlin was still smiling, unable to stop as he pulled up the hood and stepped into the frigid air. It was growing dark outside, and the giant structure that housed the Olympic flame was lit up with purple and blue lights, drawing a small crowd of tourists. As he grew closer, he saw the Olympic rings reflected in the pool of water below.

A giant clock somewhere in the distance began chiming the hour, disturbing Merlin's reverie. _Right. Skating._ How long had been standing still? He shook his head, pulled his poncho tightly around him and headed for the Iceberg Skating Palace.

It was also lit up against the impending darkness and people were flooding through its doors. Merlin's gaze travelled up and around the odd building's curves and lines. As he walked closer, the long line that separated the upper part of the design from the lower, windowed section seemed to be undulating like a wave of water. Or maybe that was just the haze of drugs affecting his vision.

Merlin _hmmmed_ noncommittally as he joined the long line of spectators and tried to protect his arm from making contact with anyone or anything. He did well, though the security guard made him take his poncho off to check under it after they checked his credentials. It wasn't too difficult to do, and he was relieved that they didn't try to search the brace on his hand. Sometimes they searched _everything_ and even didn't let you take in food or water. Then there would be people standing around the lines, quickly eating and drinking their contraband. But tonight, security was more lax, letting people through easily.

Sooner than he'd expected, Merlin was inside the vast structure, awed by the visuals and the intense anticipation of the crowd around him. At first, he followed along aimlessly until people began to turn into the seating areas. When Merlin tried to follow them, the warm golden haze he'd felt since waking seemed to vanish. He was left cold, disgruntled and feeling the pain of his hand quite keenly.

Frowning, he turned back and walked to the main atrium where suddenly-there it was again. His vision went hazy with a gold sheen and he felt weightless, buoyed by happiness and a feeling of rightness. _Well then,_ _obviously, I continue on in __**this**__ direction._

Humming to himself and smiling when anyone stared, Merlin made his way through the thinning crowd. It seemed like he was supposed to go upstairs; so he did. Here was the second seating level. After a few hesitations, he headed through the tunnel-like door which opened into the enormous skating arena. It was like coming up for air from underwater, the way the lights, sound and the physical presence of the crowd hit him all at once.

Down below, he could see the ice rink, completely cleared except for one skater, a man dressed in a princely costume of all black.

"На льду готовится кататься, у нас есть фигурист Хан Ян из Китая," announced a deep voice in Russian. Merlin hesitated, waiting for the translation to see if he'd caught it all right.

"On the ice, preparing to skate, we have Han Yan from China," the English translator gave out. Merlin frowned a moment, trying to remember Han Yan's place in the skating order. At any rate, Arthur's performance in the short program had put him skating next to last for the free program, so Merlin had gotten here in plenty of time. He turned to gaze at the people around him, feeling an inclination to climb to the top of the arena. It was odd, but by now, Merlin knew better than to question it. So he began the climb.

It took him the better part of an hour, because skaters kept skating and being amaaaazing and Merlin had to stop and sit and watch. Because when else was he going to get an opportunity like this?

Then Arthur's group, the final one, took the ice to warm up. Merlin felt electrified, every nerve on high alert, waiting for...something. Arthur looked positively royal in his costume, the deep red of the pantsuit accented by golden epaulettes on the shoulders and trim across the chest, resembling a military uniform. Merlin was sure the detail looked fantastic up close, but from here it was lost until you looked at the jumbo monitor hanging over the ice. Then it was possible to catch a glimpse of the amazing golden embroidery and the calm look of determination on Arthur's face.

The first skater in Arthur's group was Javier Fernandez from Spain and Merlin was immediately distracted by how fun it was to say that name with a Spanish accent. He kept repeating it in guttural tones and giggling until people in front of him turned around to glare at him. He shrugged and gave them a blinding smile. But once they turned around, his smile died.

The warm, content feeling was leaving again. Merlin sighed and massaged his forehead one-handed. _Why_ was his leading-feeling-thingee so bloody picky and hard to please? But Merlin got up and walked down slowly to the lower level, idly heading around to the side that he hadn't visited yet and then back up to the top. Finally, he sat back down, grumpy until the haze of goldenness returned to buoy his mood again.

He'd really only missed part of Javier's skate. Now Patrick Chan from Canada was taking the ice in a conservative costume of black pants with a gray top. It was very blousy top, loose in the shoulders and with black buttons sliding down in a horizontal line across the front. Merlin frowned. _Was_ that a blouse? With all the flowers and that collar...

_Oh, bollocks._

Merlin stood as soon as the feeling settled in him, because this time it was something stronger. There was a pointed urge prodding him to move higher.

"Fine," Merlin muttered, "brilliant. There _is_ nowhere higher," he lectured that stupid leading-feeling-thingee. Then his gaze caught on the catwalk high overhead, a slim white circle that was held to the ceiling by a network of white steel beams high above the ice. Inside that circle was a smaller circle with a thick network of steel girders strong enough to hold up the jumbo screen that was suspended over the ice.

Merlin felt a chill slide through him and he couldn't help but whine quietly, "But there's no way up there from here."

Which is when his gaze slid to the one long, spindly walkway that led from the catwalk all the way out to the wall and a closed door that was about ten feet off the ground. The urgent pull was leading him there.

Merlin tried one last time to protest as he walked forward, "But I can't _reach_ the door! It's not like there's-"

He stopped and sighed as another door beneath that door suddenly became visible. It was a recessed door that lay flat against the wall-no hinges or a door knob to stick out. Instead, there was a silver plate of some kind where the doorknob should be. Merlin stared at it, feeling that golden haze settle over him again. Despite the fact that he had no idea what he was doing here, he knew that he was in the right place and something needed doing.

The crowd had gone silent as the strains of Vivaldi's _Four Seasons_ filled the room. Merlin turned back to watch the routine, smiling at the choice of music. This was one of the few pieces of classical music that Merlin recognized and truly loved. The violins lifted him out of his worry and not even Chan stumbling on his third and fourth jumps could faze Merlin's happy state.

But eventually, his gaze traveled up to the catwalk above the ice and a movement caught his eye. What was that? _There._ He saw it again, a quick movement between the girders that held up the jumbo screen. Was someone up there?

Worry niggled at his mind and the urgent feeling he'd had all along suddenly doubled in intensity. Merlin whirled to face the recessed door again. There had to be a way to get in. He fit his fingers to the silver plate and felt all around for a button, a knob, a groove- anything that would show him how to get in. Finally, the plate shifted and he was able to get the fingers of his good hand underneath. It slid, showing a keyhole under a latch that he assumed would be locked. Only...it wasn't.

The latch turned and the door swung silently open. He caught it, entered and pulled the door closed behind him. The room he stepped into was a small utility room with equipment for changing light bulbs and servicing electrical equipment. The sound of music echoed strangely against the walls here.

Merlin dropped the hideous poncho on one of the boxes of equipment and turned to catch the small flight of stairs that led to the door above. He leapt up them and then his mind suddenly informed him what the white jumpsuits by the stairs were there for: invisibility while walking the catwalk. Apparently, the officials had worried about distracting people from the program.

Good job, because it looked like Merlin was going to go out there.

The strains of Vivaldi ceased and the applause started. Merlin jumped back down and rifled through the white coveralls, grabbing one that looked like the armholes might be big enough to fit over his brace. Yuzuru Hanyu skated next, just before Arthur, but Merlin still needed to hurry. The coveralls went over his pants and t-shirt slowly, if easily, and zipped up in front, with a minimum of pain involved.

The thought kept bothering him that this was all too easy. There should have been someone guarding the door; it should have at the very least been locked. He took one last look around and saw what he hadn't seen before: someone was lying on the ground in the shadows behind the boxes.

Merlin rushed over and saw that the man was lifeless, staring at the ceiling overhead. Blood had spread from behind his back and there was a small, bloody bullet hole in his chest. The image was burned in Merlin's retinas; even as he stumbled back, the man's glassy eyes seemed to stare at him.

The cold starkness of death cut through the last of the golden haze around Merlin's mind. He was sober in an instant, scared. Violence and death lay behind him and he had no idea what lay ahead. Still, there was no choice to be made.

Soundlessly he opened the door at the top of the stairs. Merlin hesitated, pulling the hood of the coveralls over his head. Below, Yuzuru was already on the ice, ready to begin his program and the crowd had gone silent. Everyone was distracted; Merlin knew he would be all but invisible in the white coveralls against the white ceiling and white girders. It was time to move.

Bending at the waist, trying to ignore the familiar ache that had once again settled in his bruised abdomen, Merlin moved ahead slowly. From a distance, he hoped that it looked like a part of the catwalk that had suddenly gone opaque as he moved by.

"_This is not the droid you're looking for,"_ he whispered, unable to keep from quoting _Star Wars_ even at such a completely inappropriate time-evidence that the drugs had not completely left his system. There was no doubt that Jedi mind tricks would come in handy in this adventure. Despite knowing that it would do no good, he focused his mind and tried to use the Force to cover his appearance on the catwalk. There was no way to know if it worked for real, but he _felt_ more invisible now.

At the halfway point, he allowed himself a peek down through the side bars of the catwalk. The dizzying view was made all the better by seeing Yuzuru whip by at full speed, preparing for a jump of some kind that would probably be amazing if Merlin could see it. But as he was three or more stories off the ice and bent over and in increasing amounts of pain, he just decided to focus on getting to the interior part of the catwalk and forget about the fantastic spectacle going on below.

By the time the audience burst into applause for Yuzuru's routine, Merlin was at the inner ring of the catwalk. With relief, he crossed over onto the thinner walkway and knelt. The ring was enormous, far bigger than it had looked from a distance. In the center down below, the girders came together, forming a square that boasted the same handrails as the catwalks and technician access to the giant, four-sided screen that hung below.

Merlin froze. There was a man there, kneeling in the corner of the square, camouflaged by his all-white coveralls. No one could see him; no one was in a position to stop him and as Merlin watched, the man reached down beside him, picked up a white rifle and nestled the stock of it against his thigh.

The shock of it stole Merlin's breath. He looked over at the edge of the rink where Arthur was standing with his coach. It was almost time for him to take the ice.

Merlin's mind raced. He could be jumping to conclusions. The man could be a sniper trying to protect Arthur from danger, but Merlin's instincts said no. The dead body back at the entrance to the catwalk meant that something had gone wrong; this man wasn't supposed to be here. This man was here to kill Arthur.

Could Merlin warn Arthur? Stop him from skating? Just as Merlin moved to stand, the man with the rifle turned and looked behind him.

Merlin froze in a half-crouch, watching the man's hold on the gun, watching how his gaze tracked loosely around the catwalk without seeming to see anything unusual. Finally, he turned back and focused on the ice below.

Merlin slowly moved back down, heart aching in his chest, blood icy cold in his veins. If he got himself shot, there was no one else to stop the assassin. He took a few precious seconds to breathe, cursing himself liberally.

He had come here _alone_, stupidly empty-handed, _stupidly_ trusting his instincts, and now he was the only one in position to stop this man from killing Arthur. But how in the bloody hell was he going to do that?

Above, the announcer called out Arthur's name.

Merlin took a deep breath and started to move.

* * *

_A/N: Oh my. I'm so sorry for doing that to you, all my sweet readers who forgive me for such long absences and are so supportive. But the next part moves fast and then suddenly, we're at the end of the story, so I had to stop it here as we were already at 6,000+ words. I'm working hard to finish up soon. Thank you for your encouragement and reviews! _


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur's body was thrumming with adrenaline, even as he stood completely still on the ice. He was focused, listening intently to George's pep talk. His coach stood just outside the rink at the entrance, going on about the usual stuff, modified slightly by the warm-up Arthur had skated only moments before and by the fact that this was one of the most important skates of his life.

"Don't anticipate the landing on the quad. Make sure you get the full rotation. Keep your chin up and your spin tight," George said, leaning in and drilling Arthur with his eyes. "Remember, they are all here to see you skate the best routine of your life. Give it to them and you will get your gold."

Arthur nodded once and lightly slapped the board of the rink's wall before turning to skate off. The audience began applauding and Arthur took a moment to acknowledge them with a slight wave and a smile-all faked. There was no room in Arthur's mind for anything but the feel of his body against the ice. In a sport that was sometimes decided by such a small margin, knowing when your body was deviating from the norm was essential.

Arthur took one wide turn around the arena, flexing his thighs and turning his body one way and then the other, feeling his skates kiss the ice and caress it lovingly, perfectly. Everything was as it should be. He slowed and turned to reach his beginning point. The applause died down.

Arthur found his spot and got into position, back arched, one arm thrown over his head and the other out to his side. He breathed deeply-once, twice...

* * *

_One minute earlier..._

Merlin reached back with his right foot and set it on the rung below with the tiniest _scrrrraaape_ possible. Because noise would be really _bad._ He gripped the side of the curved ladder with his one good hand and refused to look down at the ice below. Truly. Would it not have made more sense to build a nice, thick, sturdy ladder with solid walls going from the outer catwalk to the inner catwalk? After all, Merlin hardly needed a reason to trip and fall off of anything, much less a thinly-railed ladder curved concavely three stories up and over hard ice when he had only one good hand _and_ was doped up past reason and sense.

Not that this train of thought was helping at all.

Merlin forced himself to breathe deeply and focused on using the Force again, since it seemed to have worked so far-as evidenced by the lack of shouts of discovery or irate workers scrambling after him on the catwalk.

_You will not fall off the ladder. You are __**one**__ with the ladder._

Merlin felt the giggles coming again. He knew it was silly and something he wouldn't want to own up to in a thousand years; but for some reason, he felt safer using the Force as he navigated the next few steps down, moving his one good hand from the edge of the ladder to the middle of the rung above him.

Bad job that his hand was getting sweaty. Actually, his whole body was quite warm inside the white, puffy coverall. _Not_ _bloody helping._

He tried to focus on moving slowly and carefully, envisioning himself as panther..._ooooo, yes, __**that**_-a rather white, puffy panther who was _not_ giggling. _Nope._ Because only one slight noise would mean that the assassin would turn to find a spindly Sta-puff Marshmallow Man on the ladder trying to prevent him from killing Arthur.

And after that, it wouldn't matter what Merlin attacked him with-whether it was with his one good hand, his shoe or perhaps a venomous glance and a tirade of pointed insults-the man would _**shoot**_ him and then go for Arthur and it would all be over.

Yes. _See?_ _Everything depends on using the Force and being a silent, white panther..._

Then Merlin was at the bottom, relieved, touching down on the far more sturdy square inside the catwalk. Here he could stand normally and even walk a few yards in any direction before coming to a railing. Some of the tension left his body.

Until he turned to find that he had wasted all of that interior monologue: the assassin was facing him now, jaw dropped, his small, black eyes roving over Merlin as the seconds stretched out. It was almost funny; the two of them in white, puffy coveralls, facing each other like two overdressed sumo wrestlers who didn't know how to begin the match.

Then the assassin snapped up his rifle, stood and pointed it right at Merlin's face.

Merlin panicked. There was literally nowhere to go; the only structure on the square was a circle of rails surrounding another ladder going down to the jumbo screen. Assuming even mediocre targeting ability, from this distance...how could the man _miss?_

Just then, Arthur's music started and the triumphant sound of the _1812 Overture _blasted from the speakers just below them. Merlin winced and ducked, putting both hands over his ears. The other man made no move but to smirk. Was he wearing earplugs? Merlin cursed and couldn't hear his own voice. Why was Arthur using the loudest part of the song at the _beginning? _

Merlin stopped mentally whinging as soon as his gaze fell back on the rifle. But the man put aside the gun, leaning it against the railing. He was still smirking when he unzipped his coverall far enough to reach inside and pulled out a huge knife that must have been in a sheath at his side.

The blade glinted brightly in the lights, its jagged edge promising maximum damage.

The man lunged and Merlin twisted away, jerking reflexively behind the circle of rails in the center. The man came lurching after and they began a horrible dance around the central railings, two steps right, two steps left, a lunge and a miss followed by a swipe that nearly got Merlin's bad hand. The puffy white assassin was enjoying it; Merlin was simply trying to keep in one piece and stay alive.

There was a flash of red beneath them. Merlin's gaze instantly sought Arthur's form on the ice. It was the distraction the assassin wanted. He thrust forward and even as Merlin jerked his gaze back, he was forced to move, ducking and spinning, stumbling in his haste-and falling.

Twisting somehow in the air, he managed to land on his right side instead of his outstretched hands, keeping his injured hand out of the way. He was still getting his breath back when the man landed on him, his knee grinding into Merlin's thigh, one hand at his shoulder, the other holding the knife at Merlin's neck, digging into the few layers of white fabric protecting him.

Merlin arched as he was pushed over onto his back, fighting the man's hold, fighting to breathe now against the blade that was pressing closer. The man wasn't smiling now; he seemed to have decided to kill Merlin quietly.

Merlin struggled to press the knife away from his throat; in desperation, he used his left wrist hoping the brace would make it stronger. Pain throbbed through his hand in time with his heart beat, but it was working. The man was breathing hard and his eyes grew more focused. This was it.

The knife point pressed farther in, splitting the fabric until Merlin felt it against his skin. He sucked in a desperate breath, his heart pounding as panic swept through him. _No-__**no!**_

Fear turned the world gold around him and suddenly, everything just..._stopped._

Except Merlin. He was sucking in sobbing, sheared-off breaths, feeling the cold of the blade against his throat. Seconds ticked by and the man wasn't moving; the knife was deadly still. Why wasn't he moving?

Merlin shoved against the assassin's hand and pressed it away bit by bit, feeling as though he was struggling against drying cement. But finally the knife was away from his throat. He gulped in air, heartbeat thundering in his ears as he now fought to push the man's knee off of his thigh. Again, it was nearly impossible. Merlin used every bit of strength he had; the man moved like he was stuck in molasses.

When Merlin was free and his breathing back under control, he pushed to his feet and walked to the railing, unnerved by the silence.

It was a shock to see an entire arena full of statues-soundless, motionless people. No moving, no talking. But the worst had to be what was below him.

The music had stopped and there was Arthur, posed in the air, midway through a spin.

Which was impossible.

Gasping for breath again, Merlin swung around. The man with the knife had frozen as well, balanced on one knee, body tilted, one hand clutching the knife, the other stretched out awkwardly. Impossible again.

Merlin seemed to be the only person unaffected.

Then...had _he_ done that? The idea didn't shock him as much as it probably should have. Maybe his capacity for shock had been overloaded tonight. He slowly turned back to look at the ice and at the unnatural silence around him. Apparently, the world was giving him time to think, or he'd given _himself_ time to think. _Don't waste it._

His mind raced. How could he save Arthur? And maybe save himself in the bargain.

He looked around the platform square, searching for something he could use to stop the assassin, to stop Arthur-

_Wait._ That was it. With a gasp, Merlin suddenly understood: he didn't need to win this fight. All he needed to do was to _stop_ Arthur from skating, to get him off the ice and to safety. _Yes!_

There was a small box on the floor of the platform. Merlin grabbed it and gave its contents a quick glance-odds and ends of tools, wiring and electrical tape. _Perfect_. With a delicious, naughty feeling that was only a step or two removed from another attack of the giggles, Merlin sat the box up on the railing...and tipped it over.

The contents of the box emptied all over the ice with various clanks and tappings, spreading themselves over the center of the ice.

There was no way Arthur would be able to continue his skating now. Just for an extra measure of safety, Merlin sent the box over as well. Now there was no way anyone would miss seeing it.

Merlin grinned until, slowly...he realized what he'd just done: he'd ruined the most important skate of Arthur's life and possibly destroyed his chances for a gold medal for Great Britain. Would Arthur be given another chance? Surely the judges would see that dangerous objects falling on the ice weren't Arthur's fault.

Merlin bit his bottom lip. It was too late to rethink it now.

He spun back around to see the assassin still there, like an impossible statue. _Oh!_

Merlin walked over and wrestled the knife out of the man's rigid hand-not easy with only one good hand-and tossed it over the railing as well. _Ha! _He was extra-special brilliant tonight!

Merlin grinned and told the world, "There now. You may start up again."

There was a flash of heat in his eyes, followed directly by a sudden blast of music. The arena was immediately so full of noise and movement and life that it disoriented Merlin. He shook his head and looked over at the assassin, who was on his hands and knees, searching desperately for the knife.

Smug, Merlin leaned over the railing. Down below, Arthur was skating at the edge of the arena, far away from the debris put in the center by Merlin. Frowning, Merlin watched as two small skaters darted out onto the ice-the ones who usually picked up flowers after each skate. Apparently they were going to attempt to grab the items without stopping Arthur. A third skater joined them.

"No," Merlin muttered.

Arthur was preparing to skate back through the center. The girls were scurrying around even faster, but finally, one of them gave some sort of signal and the crowd gasped.

Arthur aborted his routine, skating to a quick halt, hands thrown out in a frustration. The music stopped.

"Yes! Now get off the ice!" Merlin called down, gesticulating wildly as Arthur stared at the judges, obviously confused.

The announcer began speaking in Russian, trying to placate the crowd.

Merlin called down again, but only got out a few words before a blow to his head had him seeing dark spots. He grabbed at the railing, then gasped in pain, having somehow forgotten to only use one hand. Then he was down. The floor was hard and rather cold and he couldn't see Arthur from here.

He could, however, see the assassin with his rifle standing over him. Rifle?

Merlin moaned. Why hadn't he thrown the gun over the railing with the knife?

_Stupid._ _How could I be so __**stupid?**__ Arthur is going to __**die**__ because I'm an idiot. _

The assassin settled into position and lined up his shot.

With a last burst of desperation, Merlin began kicking out at the assassin, connecting solidly with his calves and knees. The man jerked and turned, raising his rifle to hit Merlin. Then there was the sound of a rifle shot and a loud echo in the arena.

The assassin jerked and Merlin's mind scrambled to make sense of the red spot he saw growing on the man's chest. How had he shot himself when his rifle was in the air? The man fell back against the railing and then over, disappearing in an instant. Screams rang out and sounds of panic filled the arena.

Merlin's sluggish mind finally clicked on the correct answer. Someone else had shot the assassin. But how had they gotten here so fast?

Merlin staggered to his feet, using the railing for balance and ignoring the waves of pain threatening to take him down again. He had to see Arthur, safe and sound, or he wouldn't be able to believe it.

And there he was.

Arthur was being welcomed off the ice by his bodyguard, who was brandishing his weapon, and by a small team of Sochi security officers.

Merlin smiled-no, he grinned stupidly. He'd done it. He'd saved Arthur.

And that was when he heard the second shot, just as something punched him in the back and stole all of his breath. It took a few moments for it to sink in, both the pain and the truth and by then, he was hanging over the railing, dizzily watching the world slide away from him.

He was dressed just like the assassin.

Of _course_ they had shot him, too...


End file.
